Chapter 1: Waking in Red
1326words
Some brides blush. I bled.
The first thing I noticed was the metallic taste in my mouth. Then came the cold—a bone-deep chill that seemed to seep through my skin despite the heavy satin wrapped around my body. My eyelids felt weighted, refusing to open as consciousness crept back in fragments, like shards of a broken mirror I couldn't piece together.
When I finally managed to force my eyes open, the world tilted and swayed. White fabric. Red stains. My hands trembled as I raised them, finding my fingertips coated in something dark and sticky. Blood. Not just drops or smears, but enough to soak through layers of what I now recognized as a wedding dress.
My wedding dress.
I tried to sit up, my head pounding with each heartbeat. The room around me was vast and unfamiliar—a master bedroom straight out of some gothic romance, with heavy velvet drapes blocking most of the daylight and a four-poster bed that felt like it was swallowing me whole.
"You're awake." The voice came from the shadows, deep and controlled, with an edge that made my skin prickle.
I jerked toward the sound, instantly regretting the sudden movement as pain lanced through my skull. A figure emerged from the corner of the room—tall, broad-shouldered, dressed in black that seemed to absorb what little light filtered through the curtains. As he stepped closer, I could make out his features: sharp cheekbones, a strong jaw darkened with stubble, and eyes so intensely blue they seemed to glow in the dim room.
"Who—" My voice cracked, throat dry as sandpaper. "Who are you?"
Something flickered across his face—surprise, perhaps, or concern—before settling back into an unreadable mask. "Damian Thorne. Your husband."
The words hit me like a physical blow. I looked down at my left hand, finding a heavy platinum band encircling my ring finger, the diamond at its center catching what little light there was and fracturing it into tiny rainbows against the bloodstained satin.
"That's not possible," I whispered, more to myself than to him. "I don't—I don't know you."
He moved closer, each step deliberate, until he stood at the foot of the bed. "The accident affected your memory. The doctor said this might happen."
"Accident?" I echoed, desperately searching my mind for anything—a flash of memory, a familiar feeling—but finding only darkness where my past should be.
"Your car went off Blackwood Bridge three nights ago." His voice remained even, clinical almost. "You were lucky to survive. The wedding was yesterday. You insisted we proceed despite the doctor's recommendations."
I shook my head, wincing at the pain the movement caused. "That doesn't make sense. I wouldn't—" I stopped, realizing I had no idea what I would or wouldn't do. I didn't even know my own name.
As if reading my thoughts, he said, "Your name is Elena. Elena Thorne now."
Elena. The name felt foreign on my tongue, like trying on someone else's clothes. "And before? What was my name before?"
Something dangerous flashed in his eyes. "Elena Collins."
I clutched at the bloodstained fabric of the wedding dress. "And this? Why am I covered in blood?"
Damian's jaw tightened. "You collapsed during the reception. The doctor said it was exhaustion combined with your injuries from the accident. The blood..." He hesitated, the first crack in his composed demeanor. "You tore your stitches."
My hand instinctively went to my side, feeling a bandage beneath the dress. The pain flared at my touch, sharp and immediate.
"I need to see a mirror," I said, pushing back the heavy comforter despite the protest of my aching body.
"Elena—" He started forward, but I was already swinging my legs over the side of the bed.
The room spun violently as I stood, my knees buckling immediately. I would have hit the floor if not for Damian's arms suddenly around me, solid and unyielding. The contact sent an unexpected jolt through my body—not just pain, but something else, something that made my breath catch.
"You shouldn't be up," he said, his voice low and close to my ear. I could feel the heat of him through the thin fabric of my ruined dress, a stark contrast to the cold that seemed permanently settled in my bones.
"I need to see myself," I insisted, trying to pull away. "Please."
After a moment's hesitation, he nodded, keeping one arm firmly around my waist as he guided me toward a door I assumed led to a bathroom. Each step was agony, but the need to see my own face—to find something, anything familiar—drove me forward.
The bathroom was all marble and glass, obscenely luxurious. Damian flicked on a light, and I blinked against the sudden brightness. When my eyes adjusted, I found myself staring at a stranger.
Pale skin, almost translucent. Dark circles under wide, brown eyes I didn't recognize. My hair was a tangled mess of copper waves, with what looked like dried blood matted near my temple. A small cut bisected my lower lip.
"This isn't me," I whispered, raising a trembling hand to touch my reflection. "This can't be me."
Behind me, Damian's reflection watched with an intensity that made me shiver. "The doctor said your memory should return gradually. You need rest."
I turned to face him, pressing my back against the cool marble counter for support. "I want to see the accident report. And our marriage license. And—"
"Tomorrow," he cut me off, his tone leaving no room for argument. "You've been through enough today."
"I don't even know you," I said, my voice rising with a hint of hysteria. "How can I be married to someone I don't remember meeting?"
Something shifted in his expression then—a softening around the eyes, perhaps, or a slight downturn of his mouth. He reached out slowly, as if approaching a frightened animal, and tucked a strand of hair behind my ear. The gesture was gentle, at odds with the hardness I'd sensed in him.
"We met six months ago," he said quietly. "At a charity gala in the city. You were covering it for your magazine."
"I'm a journalist?" The information felt right somehow, settling into place like a puzzle piece.
He nodded. "You approached me for an interview. I rarely give them, but..." A ghost of a smile touched his lips. "You were persistent."
Before I could ask more questions, a sharp pain lanced through my side, making me gasp. Damian's arms were around me instantly, lifting me as if I weighed nothing.
"Enough for now," he said, carrying me back to the bed. "Martha will bring you something to eat and your medication."
As he laid me down, I caught his wrist, surprised by my own boldness. "I need answers, Damian. Real ones."
His eyes met mine, and for a moment, I thought I saw something flicker in their depths—something wild and not entirely human. Then he blinked, and it was gone.
"And you'll have them," he promised, gently extracting his wrist from my grip. "But first, you need to heal."
He moved toward the door, his steps silent on the thick carpet. At the threshold, he paused, looking back at me over his shoulder.
"Welcome home, Elena," he said, and there was something in his voice—possession, perhaps, or triumph—that sent a chill down my spine. "Try to rest. The doors are locked for your safety."
The door closed behind him with a soft click, followed by the unmistakable sound of a key turning in a lock.
Not for my safety, I realized with growing dread. To keep me in.
I sank back against the pillows, my mind racing despite the fog of pain and confusion. Outside the window, I could hear the wind picking up, whistling through what must be trees surrounding the property. But beneath that familiar sound was something else—something that raised the hair on the back of my neck.
It sounded almost like howling.
